Archive of Our Own

Dearest gentle reader,

Among the endless parade of grand gestures and practiced charm, it is often the quietest courtships that prove the most intriguing.                                 

This author would like to congratulate Miss Francesca Bridgerton, the diamond of the season and her adequate match, the newly titled Earl of Kilmartin.

While neither appears particularly eager to command the attention of the ton. They have nevertheless become the subject of considerable dicussion.                                                                                                        

Indeed, where others seek admiration, these two seem content merely to seek one another.                                                                                               

One cannot help but wonder whether the most remarkable match of the season shall emerge not from spectacle but from sincerity. 

As always, this author shall be watching.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Francesca stood against a slanted pillar that twisted upwards, forming an arch above her.

The soft symphony from the string quartet played, a gentle background noise.

Across the room sat a woman, her long hair cascading over her shoulders in tight curls.

She wore a lilac, floor length gown that flared softly at the hem. Hugging tight to the sides of her figure.

Her outfit was paired with equally long silk gloved.

Her rounded face was strangely familiar.

As though Francesca had seen her somewhere before.

Shortly after, a cold hand encircled Francesca's shoulder. Making her almost spill the glass of lemonade that was situated in her hand. 

The glass acted more like a prop, shielding her from any form of conversation.

But to her relief, it was a face she knew.

John.

His warm expression greeted her. 

“Good evening.” he said, lowering his head slightly in her direction.

“Good evening, John,” Francesca replied, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I was wondering if I could introduce you to someone, that is if you would like?” He questioned, awaiting a response.

Linking her arm in John’s “lead the way”

They weaved through the hoard of people scattered across the room.

Huddled in small groups chatting about boring topics that make for even worse conversation.

Finally stopping at one group.

“Hello John.” The girl Francesca had noticed only moments prior stated. Her face lit up as she excused herself from the gathering.

“Michaela, this is Fran-”

“Francesca! I’m John's cousin, he has told me so much of you.” Michaela beams eagerly. 

A puzzled expression spreads across Francesca's face. 

John had never mentioned a cousin?

“I- It's so nice to finally make your acquaintance.” Francesca replied, a soft heat rising in her cheeks. Gripping her lemonade tighter by the minute.

“As is yours!” Michaela replies, outstretching her hand to Francesca. 

The fabric of the gloves meshing briefly together as one.

“Lord Kilmartin!” A man calls, only a few paces away. “I shall be back soon.” John states, unamused, slowly moseying into the crowd.

“So, what do you think?” Michaela questions

“Think? Of what?”

“This party, a bit boring if you ask me.” The dark haired girl admits.

Francesca snickered, “Depends on who’s attending.” 

Michaela nodded, tilting her head slightly before scanning the room.

Up close, the similarities were clearer now. The shape of her eyes. The curve of her nose.

Even down to her speech reminded Francesca of John.

Michaela’s smile however, was something of its own.

Francesca had never seen something quite as perfect.

“So, how are y-”

“I’m back!”

A gasp escaped Fran's lips, followed by the crash of a lemonade.

The expensive glassware smashing against the wooden floor. 

“I am so sorry, allow me.” John offered.

But Michaela was too quick.

Taking a tissue from inside her dress, scooping up the fragments of shattered glass.

Handing it to one of the nearby maids.

“Th-thankyou.” Francesca uttered, still in a state of shock mixed with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” Michaela assured her. 

“As I was trying to say, before a certain someone chose to interrupt.” shooting a pointed glare at John.

“How are you two going now being ‘the match of the season’.” Michaela questioned

“I don’t know how we are going to deal with all the stares,” John mocked, raising a hand to his head, looking towards Francesca.

Which earned him a rightful push to the shoulder by the bridgerton girl.

“Well, on that note I think I might excuse myself. Have a lovely rest of your night,” Michaela spoke to Francesca, a smile spread among her lips.

Before fading away into the festivities.

“Care for a dance?” John offered.

Francesca happily accepted, making their way to the dance floor.

She had never cared much for attention, but dancing had been pretty much a requirement.

The floor was soon filled with a line of dancers. 

The pair stood opposite each other, awaiting the music to begin.

A lively song began to play, prompting everyone to move. 

Although a need when growing up, dancing had always come naturally to Francesca.

Probably due to the copious amounts of lessons she had taken as a child. 

But this time it felt different. 

Her eyes wandered to the large clusters of people, losing focus.

When she landed on something different.

Michaela.

Watching on from the side. 

Causing her heart to beat faster, matching the pace of the music.

She couldn't be out of breath already?

They continued dancing every now and again, joining as one.

Francesca’s eyes however, were constantly drifting.

She glanced once more.

Michaela nevertheless, was still looking.

“Ow!” John exclaimed.

“My apologies,” Francesca replied, a pit forming in her stomach.

“Don’t worry, keep going.”

John’s reassuring expression seemed to calm her slightly.

The remaining movements blurred together, as though it wasn’t actually her who was dancing, more like a dream.

A sigh of relief escaped the girls lips when the music came to a pause.

Francesca bowed to those next to her, shortly after exiting the floor.

A small pool of sweat began to form on her forehead.

Patting it away with the back side of her glove.

Why did she suddenly feel as though the ballroom had grown unbearably warm? 

And why did she keep wandering back to Michaela?